


Scars

by orphan_account



Category: Cinderella 2015
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Memories, Scars, better, kitella - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had a remnant of a scratch or two up one of her arms. Those scars, however, were nothing to these. These had been undeniably intended to harm her, and when they had been inflicted Kit shuddered to think of how deep they would have been, how much blood would have seeped out of them as his beloved wept in pain and fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

“Ella, are you ticklish?” Kit questioned with a mischievous grin, watching his new wife’s reaching to him lightly brushing his fingertips across her ribcage.

They had spent the entire day becoming better acquainted with one another’s bodies, it being the day following their wedding night, and the lazy atmosphere that had settled over them, following a preciously intimate and energetic moment, had just been interrupted by the unexpected and small squeal Ella made, moving inches away from her husband, before returning to his touch. He could see her attempting to asses his intent, searching his eyes before hastily answering negatively. Kit, clearly, was unconvinced.

“I think you are.” He told her, imitating his previous actions and earning a little suppressed squirm from her. They were still for a few seconds after, both him and Ella knowing what was going to happen next, unwilling to abandon their occupation of simply languishing in bed, before Kit moved to action, furiously attacking her sides as she shrieked with laughter. His fingers were dancing all over her middle, causing her to flail and giggle, batting him away with hardly any effort thrown into her motions.

“Kit, stop! Stop!“ She squealed over her laughter, delight ringing through her tone as he answered her demands with more fervent attentions. "No! No, please stop!” She was rolling away now, conveniently on her back, and Kit spared no time in angling into an advantageous position, Ella now seizing up in fits of laughter at his touch.

“Never!” He retaliated with laughter to match hers, completely aware of how childish they might seem. “Tickle war has been declared!” That would give a little bit of discussion for the servants that were undoubtedly listening in. Even if there wasn’t a gossiping footman or nosey chamber maid leaning up against the doors, Kit had no doubt that at the very least a guard would have heard their antics by now. The set of rooms belonging to the king was extensive, and the bedchamber was, indeed, the furthest away from the guards positioning out in the hall, but Ella was loud and the walls were thin. Why should he care if they heard them, anyway?

“Kit! Kit!” Admittedly the circumstances were not very sexualised, aside from the lack of clothing, the location of such entertainment and the days previous activities, but Kit could hardly turn his attention away from the way she called out his name, half crying and half moaning, and he could not wait to have her do so again in another situation. “Kit!” His distraction proved his downfall, Ella escaping his clutches as she was no longer pinned to the mattress, and she was flinging the covers away in her haste. Her husband, however, was a fast mover, and her toes merely brushed the floor before he wrapped his arms about her waist and pulled her back to him, giggling and kicking.

“Where did you think you were going, my love?” He chuckled in good humour as she released a defeated sigh, his breath hot against her shoulders and she curled closer into him. It was then, as he moved to kiss her back and shoulders, that Kit noticed the silvery scars that ran down from her shoulder blades to the middle of her spine.

He had felt the rivets, but had paid no real heed to them when he found them in the night. He had been preoccupied by her front, it would seem, and there was no way he could have anticipated what they looked like in the light of day. His adventurous lips had not found them beforehand, only the very beginnings of them being exposed to sight by dresses and were not at a very accessible place, at that. And, whoever prepared Ella in the morning had kindly taken the time to hide them with cosmetic assistance. While Kit supposed it was a good thing, them being horrible reminders of what abuse she had suffered in her past life, he still felt hurt she had not told him of them.

She had a remnant of a scratch or two up one of her arms, and while Ella had provided a story behind them Kit knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth when she said a ceramic vase smashed and she tried to catch it. It looked awfully like she had brought the arm up to shield her face, in fact. Those scars, however, were nothing to these. These had been undeniably intended to harm her, and when they had been inflicted Kit shuddered to think of how deep they would have been, how much blood would have seeped out of them as his beloved wept in pain and fear.

“Kit?” Ella frowned, turning to see what had caused him to cease his amorous attentions so suddenly. The answer behind what had made him pull away from her, what he was so focused on, came to her within seconds of catching a glimpse of his eyes over her shoulder. They were filled with pity and pain, like her hurt went so far as to harm him. “Are they that terrible?” She asked, returning her head to the pillow, eyes clouding over as she recalled memories she had tried so hard to remove from her mind. They did not give her courage or help her be kind, after all. “I can’t see them.” She explained. She had always known they were there, ever since the wounds had closed up and stopped their bleeding, when she was able to cover her back with limited discomfort. Everyday when she tightened up the back of her old dress she had felt them.

They were, indeed, that terrible, but not in the way Ella thought. She supposed they were unpleasant to look on, having been certainly unpleasant to endure receiving, but Kit did not find them so. They were just silver streaks, but the represented so much more. They showed a time where the skin on her back had been painfully torn at by what must have been something like a switch rod, where someone had intentionally brought his love pain and probably wished to humiliate her as well. How could she have forgiven her, after the woman had done this? He wondered, gently tracing the length of one of the lines.

Ella felt embarrassed as much as she felt the old memories of fear and horrific suffering rise up and surround her. Queens did not have worked hands or scars from severe punishments. Kings did not marry girls with taunt names such as Cinder wench and Dirty Ella. Kings hardly ever spoke to servants. Perhaps her stepmother was right after all, perhaps she would always be nothing more than a servant wretch.

A single tear stung her eye, trickling down her face as Kit pressed his lips to the end of the scar furthest to the right and she choked on a halted sob, the sensation overriding her dark thoughts and demanding attention. His lips trailed up her back, following the scars path until they reached her shoulder blades, before repeating the performance on every single one of the scars that littered her back. When he completed his task, Kit rested his chin on her obliging shoulder and offered a kiss to the tear stain on her cheek, wrapping his arms about his wife, his only love.

“I can’t make the memories go away.” He murmured, pressing closer to her. “I can only give you better ones.” And Ella knew that she could never be just anything, as long as someone loved her than she was theirs. She was Kit’s Ella, and that was enough, the promise of better memories was enough.

* * *

 

“Mama, what’s that?” An innocent voice inquired, a single finger reaching out to run over the silver marks on Ella’s forearm. Ella’s attention was torn away from the storybook that lay in her lap, the one she was reading aloud to her children, and turned to see her small sons bewildered face. Marcus seemed very, very interested in the scar he was currently touching, and she felt Aenor to her right stiffen beneath her arm.

The small family was situated on a rug in the informal drawing room, sitting by the fire as Ella entertained the three children before the evening meal, looking the picture of comfort - right up until a curious prince asked after a mark on his mothers forearm. Critter, who had been staring into the flames, began to pretend he wasn’t listening, but the queen could sense he was incredibly interested.

She supposed they weren’t very concealed, on reflection, but Ella was still unprepared when the question was posed. It wasn’t like she didn’t expect one of them to ask, more that they just never had. By the time Critter and Aenor understood enough to recognise them as scars they had either simply accepted them or came to the conclusion it was better not to ask. No one questioned her on the scars. She often covered them with concealing powders and pastes, even though she disliked the feel on her skin, and when the cosmetics smudged people never pointed it out. They supposed it would cause her embarrassment or pain.

“It’s called a scar, Marcus.” She schooled her son, smoothing his hair over in a small way to reassure him. She could tell he was unsteadied by his siblings quietly alarmed reactions, and she did not want any of her children to fear asking her a question out of curiosity. “Children, you know the Tale of the Glass Slipper, yes?” Marcus groaned and Aenor sighed.

“We know you were the mystery maiden with the glass slippers.” The princess informed her mother, before remembering herself and how she should act, ducking her head and mumbling an apology.

“I was a merchants daughter, and after his death my stepfamily could not afford servants. I had to say goodbye to all my friends, and I lied to myself that we would all share the work. We didn’t.” She shook her head, suppressing a rueful laugh.“I was not treated as well as we treat the servants hear, you should note.” Ella sucked in a breath through her teeth. “You must understand, my loves, that they were not as kind as they should have been…” How could she explain to them what she had endured? How might they ever understand the horrors and hardships she saw? They wouldn’t, not truly, not unless they experienced it themselves, and how she hoped that would never be so.

“They hurt you, didn’t they?” Marcus mumbled, big blue eyes innocent and troubled. “Mama, did they hurt you?” Ella released a sigh, attempting to ease the inner turmoil and painful memories.

“Yes, my darling, they did.” Ella forced a weak smile, kissing Marcus’s forehead, pulling him closer. Marcus, figuring out that his mother needed the embrace that followed a little more than he did, curled closer into her. She shouldn’t cry in front of her children, but Ella’s eyes couldn’t help but water as memories began to resurface.

“Do you remember anything?” Aenor questioned, her words hardly more than a whisper, leaning closer to Ella as she shuddered - she could hardly imagine how someone could be so cruel as to inflict pain on her own mother, Ella who was the epitome of beauty and goodness and light. It was almost unthinkable. Almost.

“Everything.” Ella confirmed, and she could see Critter turn to her with an expression of horror on his face. “You don’t forget things like that.” She would never be permitted the luxury of forgetting the constant smacks and kicks she had been plagued by, and the birching she had foregone on one disgustingly memorable occasion.

The scars on her forearm had been made when her stepmother had begun to clear out some of the more expensive items that were littered about the house (perhaps to help with the lavish lifestyle the Tremaines pursued), and Ella had hesitated in obeying her orders. It was difficult to follow orders when the commands involved selling off her mothers mothers hand painted vase, over a hundred years old and her mothers favourite material possession. She had wrung the explanation out of her stepdaughter, and hurtled the vase across the room at her. Ella had responded by throwing her arm to shield her face, the china cutting into her arm and sticking, her blood dripping onto the floor amid the broken crockery.

“Do you think about it?” Critter asked, breath hitching. “Do you think about it with us?’

"No.” Ella laughed, smiling to her son. “I think about it, occasionally, but not when I’m with you, my darling.” Marcus moved closer to her and Critter inched across the rug towards the huddle of three. “You don’t forget things like that, but you can make better memories, your father told me that.” And the listener at the door smiled, blue eyes sparkling as he pushed the door open and greeted his family with the smile of a perfectly content being.


End file.
